Let Us Be Brave
by Black Hole of Procrastination
Summary: Raised in a cesspool of treachery, madness, and corruption, Rhaegar's children have avoided the intrigues of their grandfather's court. But when tragedy strikes the Red Keep, they each must learn to play the game. AU Canon Divergence. Targaryen sibling What-If (with a side of Starks). Jon/Sansa. Eventually Rhaenys/Robb. Hints of Aegon/Rhaenys.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:**Raised in a cesspool of treachery, madness, and corruption, Rhaegar's children have avoided the intrigues of their grandfather's court. But when tragedy strikes the Red Keep, they each must learn to play the game. AU Canon Divergence. Targaryen sibling What-If (with a side of Starks).

**PROLOGUE**

"Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land."

_- A Storm of Swords, _George R.R. Martin

Jon Connington quietly made his way into the Sept of Baelor. It was abandoned, save for Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor standing watch outside the door. The other doors were barred, keeping septon and septa alike from their prayers. The Silent Sisters had been permitted entry to see to their task, but that was many hours passed now.

The lamps and candles that usually lit the marble hall had been snuffed out. Only moonlight broke the darkness, filtered through the blue and green glass from above. Sealed up in the dim quiet, with only the Seven as witness, it truly felt all the more like a tomb.

And at the center of it all stood his prince.

Jon slowly made his way towards the raised dais where Rhaegar stood vigil. If his friend heard his approach, he did not acknowledge it. Instead, he continued to stare unflinchingly at the figure before him.

In death, Lyanna looked solemn, regal, and every bit the queen she was meant to become. So different from the woman she was in life.

Jon had little love for Rhaegar's second wife. She was stubborn, childish, quick to anger, and took great pleasure in undermining Jon when and where she could. But after seventeen years, Jon and Lyanna had reached something of an understanding. Their mutual devotion for Rhaegar had bound them together and fostered a begrudging respect. She had even gone so far as to name her only son in his honor (though whether that was to appease Rhaegar or another jape at his expense, Jon was never sure).

They had struck a balance. While Jon could aid his friend on the battlefield and provide counsel in court, Lyanna kept Rhaegar from sinking into his usual melancholy; a task that became more and more necessary as the weight of ruling took its toll.

Jon sighed, watching as Rhaegar ran his thumb along the back of his wife's pale hand. The prince had been inconsolable at the death of Princess Elia. But then his grief had made way for joy when he wed Lyanna. Now, without Lyanna at his side, Jon feared Rhaegar would never recover from this loss. "She looked well that morning," Rhaegar said, his voice shattering the quiet that surrounded them.

Jon remembered. He and Rhaegar were setting out early; a much needed hunting trip after enduring weeks of headaches at court. He remembered Lyanna running into the courtyard, barefooted and wild, her unbound hair floating like a pennant behind her. She had been all flushed cheeks, laughter, kisses, and japes as she saw them off. Neither could have suspected they would return a few days later to find her cold and lifeless.

"Illness is a peculiar thing, Your Grace. It can strike down the hale and heartiest without much warning," Jon finally offered, though he doubted it gave any comfort.

Rhaegar stilled.

"Especially when preceded with a healthy dose of Sweetsleep," Rhaegar said quietly, his gaze still trained on Lyanna's face.

The implication of Rhaegar's words hung heavy in the air, and with them, an unspoken accusation.

"Rhaegar—"

"I know." Rhaegar cut him off, finally meeting his eyes. "I sound like the old man. Seeing conspiracy and betrayal around every corner. Fearing daggers in the night."

Rhaegar huffed out a bitter laugh. If there was one thing the prince feared, it was becoming his father.

Jon stayed silent, considering his friend.

It would be easy to dismiss this as a fancy born from grief; a desperate attempt to seek justice where there were none to be found.

But Jon also knew his friend. Rhaegar would never jump hastily to accusations. He had watched too many innocent men burn.

What's more, Jon knew the Red Keep. In his many years as Hand, he'd heard his share of whispers and schemes. That anyone would plot against the crown was hardly shocking. But to have acted so boldly, and against a member of the royal family…

"If there is an unnatural hand Lyanna's death, I swear to you, I will find it," Jon pledged.

"No."

Jon paused, thrown by Rheagar's refusal, but he would not be cowed. If the prince truly believed there to be danger, action must be taken.

"And what if there is some plot afoot? Rhaenys or Aegon or Jon might be next. Would you risk them?"

"Of course not!"

"Then we must find who is behind this."

"And then what?" Rhaegar hissed, violet eyes flashing dangerously. "I know what the king would do. Shall I set them to flame? Let them roast alive before the entire court? Will my children be safe then?"

Jon watched helplessly as Rhaegar trembled with a hatred Jon had never seen in his gentle friend.

"If you wish to root out our enemies, you need only look around you," Rhaegar continued, his voice more measured than before. "There is not a noble house in Westeros that does not harbor hatred for the Targaryens. My father saw to that. His madness has crippled this realm, and now in his infirmity, I am left to account for his crimes. The Iron throne was forged by spilling blood. It will be destroyed by spilling more."

Jon frowned.

What the prince said was true enough. Aerys' mind had been too far gone to rule in anything but name for over ten years. However, his bloody legacy endured, casting a pall over every action the crown attempted. There were plenty who wished them ill. But to leave them to their schemes would be a mistake. There was still too much that stood to be lost.

"So you propose we do nothing?"

Rhaegar sighed.

"My ancestor's had their dragons to force men to their knee. I am not so fortunate. We must court favor some other way, my friend." Rhaegar offered him an empty smile, before turning back to Lyanna. "Starting with the Starks."

**Author's Note**

I'm so surprised by this fic. I've always been way more interested in the Starks than the Targaryens, but imagining the Rhaenys/Aegon/Jon siblinghood has me inspired! Also, I've been addicted to 'The Borgias' for the last few weeks and have been desperate to write some family/political intrigue in the ASOIAF universe. Next up, is the first Rhaenys POV. Should be up sometime this week.

IMPORTANT CHANGES TO CANON: Elia dies giving birth to Aegon. Shortly after Elia's death, Lyanna persuades her father and brothers to set aside her betrothal to Robert, and instead marries Rhaegar. Robert, enraged at the broken betrothal, picks a fight with Brandon. They duel and Brandon is killed, damaging Ned and Robert's friendship forever. Aerys still sits the Iron Throne but has suffered a stroke that largely prevents him from ruling (and setting people on fire), and has grown infirm in his old age. For the last ten years, the Small Council and Rhaegar have ruled the Seven Kingdoms in his name in relative peace.


	2. Rhaenys I

**RHAENYS I**

The princes were missing. Both of them.

It was one thing for Aegon to run off. He did it often enough, slipping away to seven-knows-where with that Dornish cutthroat skulking in his wake, only to return the next morning without explanation or apology.

But Jon (sweet, dutiful Jon) would never disappear like this. Not without their father's leave. Not without a word to _her_.

Rhaenys had done her best to keep the news from reaching the rest of the keep, but two days had already passed since Aegon and Jon were last seen, and she could not conceal it for much longer. Sooner or later even the most unobservant of nobleman would be speculating on the whereabouts of her brothers. Tongues were already wagging over her father, who had hardly emerged from his solar since Lyanna's death. The disappearance of his heirs was the last thing the royal family needed circulating through the court.

Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell had set out at dawn to comb the city and the Kingswood for Aegon and Jon. But evening now crept upon King's Landing, and not a word had been sent from either Kingsguard.

Rhaenys stared miserably at the handkerchief in her lap. In the last hour, she had only managed three clumsy stitches, the crimson thread standing out like three jagged wounds against the swatch of white linen. She tried to focus on the task at hand, to conduct herself as if nothing was amiss, but it was no use.

With each passing minute, Rhaenys mind wandered to her brothers' fate. Images flashed through her mind, each more terrible than the next. Aegon and Jon kidnapped by outlaws. Aegon and Jon robbed and beaten, left bleeding in a ditch by the Kingsroad. Aegon and Jon throats slit, their bloodless bodies thrown into the Blackwater.

Friends to the Targaryens were few and far between at court, that much was true, but would anyone truly dare harm the princes?

Rhaenys was pulled from her dark thoughts by a tugging at her skirts. She looked down to find Balerion attempting to wind his way about her legs. Rhaenys reached to pet his fur, earning a contented hum as the cat arched his back towards her hand. At least _someone_ had not abandoned her.

Balerion was a universally despised character in the Red Keep.

Battered and temperamental in his old age, the poor wretch looked more the part of a King's Landing stray than the proper companion of a princess. Rhaneys loved him all the more for it.

Every bit as dreaded as his namesake, Balerion was avoided by Kingsguard and kitchen maid alike.

_The Stranger on four legs_, father had dubbed him, after a particularly unpleasant encounter with her pet resulted in two long scratches on the prince's arm.

Perhaps it was wicked of her, but what pleased Rhaenys most of all was how easily Balerion seemed to terrify her ladies.

These were not the ladies-in-waiting who had grownup alongside Rhaenys. Her childhood friends were all long gone from her service, wedded and bedded with husbands and children of their own.

In their place, she had accumulated this collection of beautiful, empty-headed maids. With their bright silks and endless chattering, Lyanna had once compared them to a cage of exotic birds.

But Rhaenys knew better than to dismiss them. Silly as they may be, they were not complete fools. She felt how they watched her, _the treacherous little magpies_, ever poised to whisper their findings into their lord fathers' ears. And all the while they smiled and flattered and schemed how best to earn her favor.

_Or rather, her brothers' favor._

As if Aegon or Jon would spare a thought on them! Jon hardly left the training yard long enough to take notice of any girls, and Aegon…well, Aegon knew all too well the sort of mischief that came from the beds of lords' daughters.

Not that any of that mattered now. Not if the princes were not found.

Balerion edged onto the settee beside her and pushed his way onto her lap, wedging himself between her and her needlework. Rhaenys smiled, pulling him closer. He was not fond of being held, not even by her, making this gesture of comfort all the sweeter.

Balerion was the only one in the room who sensed her distress. Her ladies were too preoccupied to notice, tittering away about Prince Viserys' plans for his upcoming nameday celebrations.

That her uncle seemed to have no trouble planning an elaborate feast and tourney so close on the heels of his goodsister's death did not surprise Rhaenys. All the same, it set her teeth on edge.

Lyanna was as much her mother as Jon's.

Rhaenys could barely remember her own mother. Her father and uncles spoke of her often, but as each year passed, Elia Martell seemed more like a maiden from a song than a real woman of flesh and bone.

And as for Lyanna, while no one would describe the she-wolf as particularly maternal, she had been fiercely protective of her three 'cubs'. She was Rhaenys' stalwart defender and truest confidante. Her sudden loss had left them all shaken.

"Princess?"

Rhaenys head snapped to the handmaiden hovering in the doorway of her sitting room.

"I believe I found what you misplaced earlier," the girl said, eyes darting hesitantly to the other ladies present before returning to the ground.

_They've found the boys._

Rhaenys jumped to her feet. In her excitement, she had forgotten the cat situated on her lap, and sent Balerion to the ground in a tumble. He hissed in displeasure, but landed on his feet. With a flick of his tail, he promptly darted off in the direction of her bedchamber.

The outburst had not gone unnoticed. All talk of tourneys and favors had ceased, as seven pairs of eyes locked onto her.

"Thank you, Brynn. I'll see to it." Rhaneys schooled her expression, and forced herself to cross the room slowly.

As she bid her ladies goodnight, she could see the probing gleam in each of their eyes.

_This will leave the creatures plenty to gossip about behind her back._

But Rhaenys could not bring herself to care, as she followed eagerly behind Brynn to the other side of the royal apartments where her brothers' chambers were located.

Rhaenys felt the tightening in her chest begin to ease, as she recognized the three figures at the end of the corridor. But whatever relief she felt at seeing Aegon and Jon was quickly dashed. While Aegon seemed to be well enough, Jon looked to be leaning heavily on Ser Oswell.

_He's injured._ Her worst fears had come true. Rhaenys gathered her skirts and sprinted to her little brother's side.

But as she drew closer to the trio, her steps faltered; the stench of wine and sick was overpowering.

"What happened?" she demanded, her eyes raking over Jon for signs of injury.

"We found them before they caused too much mischief, Princess," Ser Oswell said, a bemused twinkle in the knight's eye.

Rhaenys continued her appraisal of Jon, but nothing seemed to be amiss. Nothing except that her sweet, solemn little brother was well and thoroughly drunk. "Egg took me to a tavern," Jon mumbled, swaying slightly as he tried to pull from Ser Oswell's grip.

"I can see that." Rhaenys frowned, hoping that was the only destination on this escapade of theirs.

"Do not fret, little mother!" Aegon called cheerfully, from his place leaning against the wall. "Ser Sulk's sterling virtue is still intact."

Rhaneys scowled at him. She would deal with Aegon later.

Turning back to Jon, she pushed aside his dark curls, taking in his glassy eyes and clammy skin. She could not bear to scold him. Not when he looked so miserable. Besides, come morning he will have learned his lesson far better than he would from any lecture.

"Ser Oswell? See that Prince Jon makes it to his chambers."

The knight nodded, before hoisting Jon forward in the direction of his door. Jon was as unsteady as a newborn calf, but eventually Ser Oswell steered him across the threshold of his rooms.

"Am I to have an armed escort to my chambers too, sister?"

Aegon pushed off the wall to move towards her, looking all too pleased with himself.

Rhaneys' hand connected with his face, leaving an impressive red mark across his cheek. Aegon, for his part, seemed more shocked than injured.

"What were you thinking?" Rhaneys hissed, ignoring the throbbing in her hand. "You left without a word to anyone! Without guards!"

"He was perfectly safe," Aegon countered, all mirth gone from his eyes.

"You are supposed to look after him!"

"And I was!" Aegon cried out in frustration. "He needed to leave the keep. To forget, for a little while."

Rhaneys continued to glare at Aegon, but her anger had already begun to drain from her.

She had been worried about Jon ever since Lyanna's death. Jon had always been a quiet, somber sort of boy, not very open with his feelings. _Like father…_

It had never been easy to know what Jon was thinking, but since his mother's passing, it was near on impossible.

But Aegon knew. Jon looked up to Egg. Jon _confided_ in Egg.

"Is he alright?"

Aegon nodded, eyeing her warily.

"As well as he can be."

Rhaenys sighed. Her fury had left her as quickly as it came, and in its place she only felt worn.

Aegon carefully reached out, taking hold of the hand that had struck him. Cradling it lightly, he placed a gentle kiss to the smarting palm.

Keeping hold of the hand he tugged her forward. Wordlessly she followed, allowing him to guide her into his chambers.

Taking her usual seat by the hearth, she watched as Aegon crossed over to his desk.

"Are you still angry with me?" Aegon asked, filling two glasses with Arbor Gold.

"No."

It was true. She could never stay angry at Egg for long.

"You cannot expect Jon to hide behind your skirts forever," Aegon sighed, handing her a glass. "He's a man grown. Knighted."

"So I'm to stand by while you turn him into your drinking companion?" Rhaenys regarded him coolly.

Aegon smiled, taking a seat across from her.

"Is that jealousy I hear?" he teased.

"It was stupid to leave like that, Egg."

Aegon shrugged, tipping his glass in a mock toast.

"My sweet sister, you worry too much."

"And you don't worry at all."

Rhaenys took a generous sip, wanting nothing more than to clear the events of the day from her mind.

"Perhaps I have been overly hasty in choosing my drinking companions?" Aegon smirked over the rim of his own glass.

"Stop it," she chided.

Aegon's grin widened. Setting his glass aside, he knelt before her, clasping her free hand in both of his.

"Let me beg your forgiveness, my princess. I pledge to you that I will conduct myself as befits a prince of the realm from this day forward."

Rhaenys rolled her eyes.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, brother." Rhaenys teased, snatching her hand free.

Before she could move out of the way, Aegon grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to the ground. She landed in a most unprincesslike sprawl. As she tried to right herself, Aegon reached out to seat her between his legs. She tried to swat at him, but he latched onto her arms, pulling to anchor her back against his chest.

"Then I pledge that the next time I abscond from the Red Keep, I shall take you hostage as well," he whispered into her ear, his arms firmly locked around her.

She stopped fidgeting in his grip, and craned her head to look up at him.

"And where would we go?" she asked archly.

His lips crinkled into a familiar boyish grin.

"Dorne."

It was an old joke.

As children, on the rare instances she was cross with father, she would always threaten to run away to Dorne. Of course, she never attempted it. She doubted she'd make it as far as the city gate without being caught, and father would be furious. But not Lyanna. _Lyanna would have been proud._

"And if our uncles will not grant us asylum?" she asked, playing along.

Aegon paused, as if to consider.

"Across the Narrow Sea, then." Aegon reached for her hands, weaving their fingers together. "We will find some small village, change our names, and live as peasants. And no one will ever know what we once were."

Rhaenys looked down at their joined hands, picturing the life he described. A life away from the eyes of court. Away from the Red Keep. A simple life… _with Aegon._

"Jon shall come along too," Aegon continued, pulling her from her thoughts

"Shall he?"

"Well, if we are going to be peasants, someone will have to do the work."

Rhaenys chuckled, grateful to have something to laugh about after such a day.

Aegon tugged her closer, pressing a kiss lightly to her temple.

"I would see you happy, sis" he murmured into her hair.

Rhaenys sighed, leaning her head back into the crook of his neck.

"I am happy enough."


	3. Aegon I

**AEGON I**

Aegon stormed into his rooms, throwing the door close with a satisfying slam. No doubt his 'nursemaid', the honorable Ser Jonothor, would report his ill temper to father.

_Good. If he would treat me like a child, then let him know I shall act the part._

The fury that had carried him from the Small Council chamber back to Maegor's Holdfast still thrummed through his veins, hot and biting. He needed to hit something, to hit _someone_.

He made his way towards his adjoining bedchamber, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his doublet, eager to be rid of his princely trappings. He had nearly made it to the door when a familiar voice called out from behind him.

"If I were an assassin, you'd be dead now."

Aegon cursed under his breath. He did not want to deal with anyone at the moment, particularly not a smug Dornishman who, until then, had gone unnoticed by the prince.

"If you were an assassin you'd be of more use to me," Aegon snapped.

Cyneric was draped over a chair by the hearth, a glass of wine in one hand, and a dagger in the other.

"Why? Need someone killed?" Cyneric grinned, white teeth flashing with a predatory gleam. He spun the blade deftly between his fingers, but there was no true threat in it.

"Several someones. My father, for one."

Cyneric laughed.

"I'm afraid I can't help you there. Even bastards don't take much to Kingslaying. Disrupts the digestion."

Using his dagger point, Cyneric speared a slice of pear off a platter on a nearby table, and took a bite.

Aegon glared at Cyneric, moving to the seat across from him.

"Remind me why I keep you in my service?"

"To protect your illustrious royal person," Cyneric shrugged, waving his blade in Aegon's direction. "And to drink all of your wine." He added in afterthought.

Despite himself, Aegon felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

Cyneric Sand was Aegon's closest friend.

They had met as boys when Aegon was first squiring for his great-uncle.

There had been a great tourney at Nightsong, attended by knights from across the Marches, the Reach, and Dorne. It was the first time Aegon had left the capital without his father, and he was eager to prove himself.

On the second day of the tourney, Aegon was watering his great-uncle's charger, when he overheard two squires from the Stormlands insult Prince Lewlyn. Both boys were much older (and much bigger) than Aegon, but that had not stopped him from launching at them in defense of his master. There was nothing dignified about the ensuing scuffle. Neither squire had recognized their attacker as their prince, and had no qualms in bloodying the young boy.

The whole incident would have ended quickly, had not a dark figure, as small and wiry as Aegon, joined the fray. In the end, Aegon came out of the fight with a split lip, Cyneric with a broken nose.

They had been friends ever since.

Cyneric poured Aegon a generous cup of wine before topping off his own. Eager to take the edge off, Aegon downed his glass in one.

"I take it the Small Council meeting went well," Cyneric japed, brow raised.

Aegon groaned, refilling his cup.

"My Father thinks to play the diplomat."

"Trying to find you some foreign bride with a big enough dowry to fill the crown's coffers?" His friend teased. "Well, if she's too fat or too ugly, you can always point her in the direction of my bed. I'm not at all picky." Cyneric shot him a conspiratorial wink.

Aegon snorted into his wine.

While Aegon wouldn't put it past his father to marry him to some rich Braavosi or Pentoshi for the sake of the realm, the truth was far less amusing.

Lord Eddard Stark was coming to King's Landing.

Rhaegar wished for Aunt Lya's ashes to be moved to her family crypt at Winterfell. Lyanna had been cremated, as was Targaryen custom, but they had all agreed it only seemed right that she be laid to rest in her beloved North. That the Warden of the North himself was seeing to the task was somewhat less agreed upon.

A Stark had not traveled south of the Neck since Lord Rickard attended Rhaegar and Lyanna's wedding seventeen years before. The old man died before he could make the journey again, to meet his grandson Jon, and his son was less amenable to leave the walls of Winterfell.

Aunt Lya had always spoken highly of her brothers, particularly 'the silent wolf', her dear Ned. But for all her stories and fond memories, Aegon could not forgive the Lord of Winterfell for abandoning her.

Delivering the ashes to Winterfell was no difficult charge, and might have respectfully and expediently been accomplished by a steward, or perhaps one of the Kingsguard. For Lord Eddard to travel to the capital was entirely unnecessary.

There was some other purpose to his summons at work, a purpose Rhaegar was keeping from his son.

_Not even 'the prince that was promised' is was worthy of being trusted in his father's plans_.

Perhaps Cyneric's earlier jape was not far from the truth. Lord Stark had daughters, Aegon seemed to recall. Maybe his father thought to exchange a living Stark girl for the ashes of another.

The thought sat heavy in Aegon's gut.

Swallowing the last of his wine, Aegon rose and moved towards his bedchamber. He resumed clawing off his doublet and silk shirt. It was his father who insisted he dress in this frippery for Council meetings.

Rhaegar was always eager Aegon should look and behave like the prophesized prince he was meant to be, all the while keeping Aegon from his confidence and withholding any real power. Aegon was no better than one of Dany's dolls; a prop to be dressed and staged to suit his father's schemes.

Tugging on a simpler tunic and leather jerkin, Aegon returned to the outer chamber.

"And where are you rushing off to?" Cyneric asked, watching as Aegon secured his sword to his belt.

"Practice yard."

Cyneric snorted, earning a dark glare from his prince.

Aegon was rarely made an appearance in the practice yard. The "negligent Knight" Rhaenys called him in jest.

It was true. He did not take his vows as seriously as some (since Jon was anointed four moons ago, he hardly left the yard).

Aegon was capable and confident with a blade when the occasion called for it, but combat was a means to an end. Pretending to hack at other knights served no other end than to inflate egos and reveal weaknesses, neither of which appealed to the prince.

But after a day trapped in the Small Council chambers, even the mummery of the practice yard seemed agreeable. At least there he could strike out at his opponents, instead of biting his tongue and mumbling courtesies.

"Give my regards to the Spare!" Cyneric called after him, refilling his goblet with more Dornish Red.

Aegon rolled his eyes.

It was his grandfather who had given Jon that particular title.

_Rhaegar's Spare_.

It originally was meant as a barb at his father. The King disapproved of Rhaegar's second marriage, and was always quick to find fault with Jon.

But over the years, the name was repurposed by the Kingsguard into a term of affection for the youngest prince. Rhaegar still hated it, but Jon seemed to wear it as a badge of honor.

In truth, being 'the Spare' was not such a bad thing. Jon had all privileges of being a prince without any of the expectations.

He may never sit the Iron Throne, but there was a certain kind of power in the opportunity that offered. Jon was free to fuck and fight whomever he liked. He could spend his days studying at the Citadel, or fighting in tourneys, or traveling through Essos, or guarding the Wall, or sampling Lysene pleasure houses, or praying to the Seven. His life was of his choosing.

For all the love he bore Jon, Aegon could not help but begrudge his little brother his freedom.

Aegon swallowed his bitterness, renewed in his desire to strike at something.

He moved swiftly through the corridors of the royal apartments, Ser Jonothor always a respectful five paces behind.

Perhaps when they reached the yard he could put his knightly shadow to use and goad him into match.

Once out of the Holdfast, Aegon cut through a private garden that had once belonged to his grandmother. He was nearly to the other side before he noticed the garden's other occupants.

Daenerys was standing in the shade near a stone bench, her sewing basket at her feet.

Here among her mother's flowers, Dany looked so much like Queen Rhaella, Aegon could have sworn his grandmother had returned from the grave.

Dany had just seen her sixteenth nameday and was already noted as a beauty within the Red Keep. Still, Aegon had trouble thinking of her as a young woman flowered. To him, his aunt would always be the sweet little girl from his memories at Dragonstone, trailing after Rhaenys, her silver hair in plaits, a doll clutched to her side.

Aegon resisted the urge to snicker, when he caught sight of her companion.

Seated on the bench, Jon looked like some strange sort of captive. Dany was untangling some of her embroidery silks, spooling the unknotted threads around Jon's obediently extended hands like colorful manacles.

"Trading in your sword to play handmaiden, little brother?"

Jon blushed. He tried to turn towards Aegon and received a swat for his efforts.

"Don't move, Jon!" Dany chided. "You'll tangle them again."

Jon did as she bid, holding out his hands, but looked decidedly more sullen than before.

"Best do as she says, lest you awaken the dragon," Aegon teased, earning a glare from both younger Targaryens.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Dany asked coolly.

Aegon shrugged.

"Small Council was dismissed early."

"What a pity." She sniffed, turning back to her work.

"Be kind aunt, or I won't tell you the news," Aegon scolded. Dany tried her best to appear disinterested. This only spurred on Aegon more. "It seems we are to have an important visitor. Lord Eddard Stark."

The words left Aegon's mouth before he could think better of it. Father had been rather adamant that word of Lord Stark's travels were not to leave the Small Council chamber for the time being. At the moment, Aegon could not bring himself to care.

"My uncle?" Jon looked at him, no longer scowling.

"The very same." Aegon nodded. "He rides for King's Landing as we speak. He's coming to pay his respects."

Jon's face fell, and Aegon cursed himself for bringing up Aunt Lya.

Jon had been so much better in these last few weeks; no more melancholoy than he'd been before. But for all Aegon and Rhaenys efforts to keep him from dwelling on his mother, Lyanna seemed to linger at the edge of all their thoughts.

"When will he arrive?" Dany asked, with a false sort of brightness. She had been a boon in distracting Jon since the funeral.

Aegon gave her an appreciative smile, seizing upon the opportunity to turn the conversation.

"He's expected to arrive within the fortnight."

"Oh Jon! He'll be able to see you in the Viserys' tourney!" Dany beamed, clutching Jon's hands with her own, her embroidery silks forgotten.

Jon said nothing, but there was an unmistakable gleam of excitement in his eyes.

Aegon sighed, reaching out to give his brother's shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

In a fortnight, he would welcome Eddard Stark, for Jon's sake, and for no other purpose.


	4. Jon I

Jon prepares for his first real tourney and receives an unexpected gift.

**JON I**

Jon adjusted his grip on the lance.

Across the tilt yard, Ser Jaime waited, the sun glinting off of his polished white armor. From the jaunty set of Ser Jaime's shoulders, Jon could just picture the smug grin obscured by the Kingsguard's helm. He had bested Jon in the last three tilts, breaking two lances on Jon's shield, and a third on his breastplate.

_You're still favoring your left, Spare! Even wizened old Pycelle sits a horse straighter than you!_

Ser Jaime's taunts from the last tilt burned in Jon's ears_. _He would not let the arrogant knight win a fourth time.

Jon made ready, his jaw set in determination.

Spurring his mount forward, Jon held his lance steady, angling it towards its intended target. His lance found purchase on his opponent, glancing off the plate near Jaime's arm.

Before the heady thrum of victory could consume the young prince, a sharp blow to the chest sent him hurtling towards the ground.

For a moment, everything was black.

Jon's first breath came as a halting gasp. It was as if in the time between when he sat his horse and when he hit the dirt he had forgotten how to breathe entirely.

Slowly, his surroundings came back into focus. The sharp smell of horses and sweat. The sounds of rushed footsteps and muttered curses.

His squire wrestled off his helm. Jon squinted against the sun, its brightness only adding to the throbbing in his head. Its light was soon blocked by an armored figure looming over him.

Ser Jaime had also removed his helm, his golden hair sticking to his head at absurd angles. Jon would have laughed had it not been for the stinging pain in his chest and the grave expression on the older knight's face.

"I'm alright," Jon said, his voice coming out as little more than a wheeze. He made to sit up, cringing at pull on his bruised ribs.

"Easy there!" Ser Jaime moved around the brace him from behind, helping him to sit up.

Now fully upright, Jon was struck by a wave of dizziness. Closing his eyes, he willed the yard to stop spinning. He focused on regaining his breath, trying to ignore the way that each inhale seemed to grate his lungs raw.

When Jon reopened his eyes, the world had steadied some. Ser Jaime was still crouched next to him, face lined with worry.

"Are you injured?" Jaime eyed him warily.

"I'm fine," Jon snapped, brushing aside Jaime's steadying hand.

Jon knew he should not be so short with the knight. Jaime meant well enough, but Jon was tired of people fussing over him.

For over a month now, he'd endured the pitying glances and empty condolences of the entire court. Father could hardly look him in the eye, and when he did it was with an expression of raw sorrow and guilt that seemed to burrow its way into Jon's chest, leaving him feeling hollow and somehow guilty himself. Even Rhaenys and Aegon tiptoed around him, carefully weighing their words, exchanging not so subtle looks of concern, and watching him (_always_ watching him).

It was only here, in the practice yards, Jon truly felt at ease. Here he wasn't treated as if he were made of glass. Here he wasn't pitied. And he intended to keep it that way.

Jon rose to his feet on his own, albeit somewhat shakily. Ser Jaime stood too, grinning, relieved to see the young prince unharmed.

"I believe the object of the joust is to stay on your horse, Spare." Ser Jaime teased, smiling fondly at his former squire.

Jon opened his mouth to respond but paused when Ser Jaime's jape was met with a peal of giggles.

Jon's stomach sank. He followed the sound, his eyes flying to the edge of the yard where his aunt and her ladies had gathered.

Dany stared at him, clutching the rail in front of her, her violet eyes wide with concern. Around her, her ladies tittered away, whispering and giggling to one another. Jon caught sight of a flash of auburn curls somewhere to Dany's left, evidence that his pretty lady cousin was among their numbers.

She had seen. They ALL had seen.

Jon ducked his head, his face burning with humiliation.

_At least Rhaenys isn't with them, _Jon thought bitterly.

Had his sister witnessed his fall, she would see to it that he was locked away in a tower for the rest of his days like some maiden in a song before running Ser Jaime through with his own sword.

Jon sighed. Gathering what dignity remained to him, he moved stiffly towards the older knight.

"Again," he commanded, reaching out to his squire for his helm.

Ser Jaime raised a brow.

"I think that's more than enough for today," Jaime said, smirking. He held up a hand to silence Jon's protests. "You forget, lad, I'm not as young as I once was. I'll see you at supper."

Jon wanted to insist they continue, but Jaime was already making his way across the yard with a dismissive wave.

Jon growled in frustration. Leaving his squire to tend to his horse, Jon stormed off in the direction of the Holdfast, desperately trying to block out the giggles and stares from his aunt's gaggle of companions when he passed.

The tourney was in three days time, and Jon was nowhere near ready. He had been practicing for weeks. It was to be his first time entering the lists and Jon was determined to prove himself.

_Knighted at fifteen._

Even grandfather had been proud. Jon remembered how the half of the old man's face still at liberty to move had twitched into a shadow of a smile when Jon had told him the news.

In so many ways, Jon knew he made for a poor excuse of a Targaryen Prince. He wasn't courtly, or clever, or well-spoken. But in this, on the field, as a knight, he knew he could be worthy of his family's legacy.

Though father had not entered the lists in years, the legend of Rhaegar Targaryen's prowess and that infamous tourney at Harrenhal still filled the whispers of the court. Uncle Viserys, for all that he was useless with blade and bow, was a superior horseman and had been named tourney champion several times over. Even Aegon set aside his drinking and his wenching long enough to distinguish himself on the rare occasions he entered the lists. Now it was Jon's turn.

It wasn't just grandfather he hoped to impress.

The party from Winterfell had arrived nearly a sennight ago.

Since he was small, Jon's mother had filled his head with tales of her home and the greatness of House Stark.

_"__You may bear the name of a dragon but you have the look of a wolf!" _ She would remind him whenever her thoughts turned to the North.

Mother had always been almost gleeful over Jon's Northern features. It pleased her that her son resembled the brothers she loved so dearly.

When he finally met his Uncle Ned, there was no denying the similarities in their long pale faces. The same could not be said of his two eldest cousins, who had accompanied their father on his journey South. Whereas Ned Stark shared Jon's dark hair and sharp features, his children were both handsome youths with red curls and easy smiles. Though Jon had been a bit disappointed to see so little of himself in his cousins', he was already taken with Rod's good-humor and Sansa's ladylike sweetness.

Beyond a handful of family meals, Jon had seen little of his uncle since his arrival at court. According to Egg, he spent most of his time in father's solar or locked away with the Small Council.

Jon had tried not to feel too upset, distracting himself with training for the tourney and entertaining his cousins. Still, a part of him longed for the chance to get to know the man who had filled so many of his mother's stories.

Sweaty and sore from his time in the yard, Jon headed towards the royal apartments to clean up, when he heard someone call after him. Spinning on his heel, Jon was surprised to find himself face to face with the Warden of the North himself.

"Have you a moment?" his uncle asked, moving towards him. "I was hoping to have a word with you, lad."

Jon nodded, eager to finally speak with his uncle.

Jon quietly followed Uncle Ned further down the corridor. Rhaenys had seen to it that his Northern kin had been installed in comfortable guest quarters not far from his own within the Holdfast.

Ned ushered Jon into a room he appeared to be using as a makeshift solar during his stay.

Jon hovered across the threshold, taking in the papers and trunks scattered among the room's modest furnishings. He felt rather stupid. For all that he had hoped for such an opportunity to speak with his uncle, now that the moment had come Jon had no idea what to say.

Uncle Ned seemed just as uncertain, shifting awkwardly by the large desk at the center of the room.

"I have something for you," his uncle finally said, retrieving a long linen-wrapped bundle.

Ned handed Jon the gift, smiling nervously at his nephew.

Jon unwound the wrappings of the bundle with careful hands. Inside was a longsword. Jon pulled it from its scabbard to take a closer look. The blade was not freshly forged, but of such a fine quality it was clear a great deal of care went into it's making. Jon was particularly impressed with the snarling direwolf head inlaid with grey stones in the pommel of the sword.

"It was your Uncle Brandon's," Ned said quietly, watching Jon as he examined the blade.

Jon looked up in surprise. He had heard much about his bold Uncle Brandon, the Wild Wolf; the uncle who had died in defense of his mother's honor. Jon was touched Uncle Ned sought to entrust him with the blade, but it seemed wrong for a dragon to carry it (even a dragon as pitiful as him).

"I couldn't—this is the sigil of House Stark. This should go to my cousin."

Ned shook his head, smiling sadly at Jon.

"Brandon would be proud to know Lyanna's boy carried it," he said, gripping Jon's shoulder. "You're half-wolf lad. Never forget that."

Jon stared in awe at the blade in hands, tracing a finger along the head of the wolf.

He looked up at his uncle, smiling his first genuine smile since before mother's death.

"Thank you, Uncle Ned."

**IMPORTANT CHANGE TO CANON:** It was brought to my attention that given the history I've created with Robert having killed Brandon, it would not make sense for Ned to name his son Robb. I was kind of tempted to just shrug it off and say 'this is fanfic', but I think it will bother me if I don't change it. Thus, Ned's eldest son is named Rodrik. All the other Stark children have the same names they have in ASOIAF. Hope this isn't too confusing.

**Author's Note: **

Thank you to everyone who has been reading along! You guys are awesome. This chapter was slow in coming (and not super eventful, but don't worry, we're getting there). Hoping to be better about it in the future. Unfortunately fic writing is going on hold for the rest of November because of Nanowrimo, but I'll be back!

Next Up: Rhaenys POV with a feast, an unexpected musical interlude, and Viserys (finally).


	5. Rhaenys II

Viserys' nameday feast takes an unexpected turn.

**RHAENYS II**

"You have an admirer."

Rhaenys frowned. She followed the septa's gaze further down the table, fully expecting to be the object of some old lecher or puffed-up lordling's interest. Instead, she was pleased to see the little Stark girl talking animatedly with Dany.

She was flattered when she saw Sansa had forgone her Northern braids and arranged her hair in a similar fashion to her own for the feast. It was a Dornish style, one Septa Ashara assured her had been favored by her mother during her years in the Red Keep.

Rhaenys was surprisingly fond of Sansa Stark. Though the girl could easily be mistaken for one of the foolish little gnats that surrounded the princess, there was a sweetness and openness to Sansa that Rhaenys' ladies sorely lacked.

She was also pleased to see Dany find a companion near her own age. Rhaenys had always felt for her aunt, whose short life was already marred with so much loneliness.

At the height of his madness, grandfather was convinced his queen was plotting against him and Dany was separated from her mother for the first years of her life. After grandfather took ill, Dany was sequestered on Dragonstone with only Viserys and grandmother Rhaella for company. Two years ago, greyscale had claimed grandmother and Viserys and Dany returned to court. Since then, Dany was still often on her own, hiding in the gardens or taking lessons with her septa.

"I'm glad she's come," Rhaenys said, watching Dany and Sansa together. "She is a sweet girl."

Septa Ashara hummed in agreement.

"Though her head's a bit too full of knights and songs," Rhaenys added, frowning as the pair of girls burst into a fit of whispers and giggles when a foppish young knight, a Tyrell by the looks of him, passed near.

"There's no harm in that," Septa Ashara said, smiling softly. "Court is very exciting when you are young."

Rhaenys was surprised by the wistfulness in her septa's voice. Septa Ashara was a forthright, plainspoken woman (though with a cutting sense of humor). She had always cautioned her charge against getting swept up in romantic notions and knight's flowery words. But now Rhaenys suspected the septa had not always held such scorn for courtly love.

She tried to picture the woman her septa had been when she first arrived at court. She was Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall then, lady-in-waiting to the Princess Elia. Rhaenys knew the septa had been a beauty of great repute. Even now, in her robes and veils, there was no denying she was a comely woman.

When Rhaenys was still in the grips of her awkward girlhood, knock-kneed and cursed with an overabundance of freckles, she had envied her septa's delicate boning, her fair complexion, and striking violet eyes. Rhaenys was no longer that scrawny little thing, all knees and elbows, and was even thought pretty by some but she was no match to her septa. Perhaps it was blasphemy to think it, but it seemed a shame for such beauty to be wasted in service of the Faith.

Septa Ashara had taken up the Seven shortly after Princess Elia's death. For years, rumors had floated around as to what had driven Ashara Dayne to the doors of the motherhouse. Kinder members of court assumed it was the grief over her mistress that led her to the Faith, but there were plenty of nobles who were less kind. One of the more popular rumors said she was ruined and spurned by a mysterious lover. Some even went as far as to say she had born a stillborn bastard, and had sought the Seven out of penance and shame. Rhaenys hardly knew what to believe and never had the courage to ask.

She was much to old to be seated with her septa at a feast. Rhaenys was a woman grown and flowered for many years now. Still, she was grateful to have Septa Ashara at her side.

In a strange way, Septa Ashara was the last link Rhaenys had to her mothers. She had been there, for those few years in which all Rhaenys could foggily recall were warm days of kittens, and music, and a sweet-smelling lady she called Mother. She had also been there for what came after, for adventures, and stories, and laughing till their ribs felt bruised. _For Lyanna._

Had Lyanna been with them tonight, she and Septa Ashara would already have spent most of the feast mischievously commenting on each courtier present. Lyanna would have pulled faces throughout the High Septon's speech, all the while covertly offering Septa Ashara and Rhaenys sips of the strong Dornish Red in her goblet till their mouths were stained and the three of them were giggling like girls.

A sharp sting of loss settled in Rhaenys' chest.

She reached over and squeezed Septa Ashara's hand. The septa was surprised by the gesture of affection from the princess, but gave Rhaenys' hand a returning squeeze.

_At least she is still here…_

The feast itself was pleasant. The hall was abuzz with excitement over tomorrow's tourney, the good humor even reaching those seated at the high table. Viserys seemed to have put aside boyhood hurts long enough to chat amicably with Aegon. Jon, who usually sulked his way through public occasions, was laughing at some jape Rod Stark made. Even father seemed more at ease than he had in a moon's turn, speaking with Lord Connington and Lord Stark in turns while quietly overseeing the proceedings.

Shortly after the last course was served, the minstrels started up and the dancing began.

Rhaenys sipped from her goblet of honeyed wine, adopting mask of careful disinterest. She hoped there were none foolhardy enough among the company to ask for her hand.

Egg shared none of her reserve, jumping to his feet as the first notes filled the hall. He swaggered passed, stopping at the far end of the table to offer a hand to Lady Sansa. The girl ducked her head, flushing as red as her hair, before demurely accepting.

Rhaenys watched as they took the floor, red and silver heads like beacons amidst the crowd of revelers. They began to spin in time with the other couples. A verse into the dance, Aegon met Rhaenys stare and waggled his eyebrows at her playfully. Sansa did not seem to have noticed, too starry-eyed and beaming on the arm of the prince.

"My brother should not toy with little Sansa," Rhaenys said, watching as Egg whispered something into the Stark girl's ear, causing her to flush a violent red all over again.

Septa Ashara chuckled.

"I imagine for a girl of four and ten it must be quite the thrill to dance with a prince. Even one as ill-mannered as Aegon."

Rhaenys smirked.

"I suppose."

Egg looked the part of a prince from a song, at the very least. Tonight he wore a fine crimson brocaded doublet with black breeches and calfskin boots. Rhaenys smiled when she noticed that sometime during the meal he'd abandoned his coronet and that the ties of his tunic now hung loosely, the neck gaping open. _No doubt another one of his childish attempts to irritate father._

"You are hardly a crone yourself, my princess," Septa Ashara teased, pulling her from her thoughts. "There is no shame in enjoying your youth." The septa smiled knowingly, nodding her head towards the dancers.

Rhaenys shrugged.

"Perhaps Father will dance a turn by and by," she said, trying to placate the septa.

Septa Ashara sighed, muttering something about 'Martell stubbornness' under her breath.

Rhaenys ignored her, taking another sip of wine.

The song ended soon enough, and Aegon led the Lady Sansa off the floor. But rather than return her to her seat at Dany's side he made a beeline for the far wall. Rhaenys frowned in confusion as he steered the Stark girl through the crowd. Then she saw his destination.

When the meal had been cleared, Jon was quick to leave his place at the high table and hide out on the outskirts of the room, Rod and Ser Jaime at his side. But her little brother's hiding place was not safe from Egg's scheming it appeared.

Egg made quick work of it. In a matter of seconds, he had smoothly maneuvered Lady Sansa onto Jon's arm, leaving Jon too stunned to refuse as his brother pushed him toward the dancing.

Rhaenys watched her younger brother shyly lead his cousin through the steps, too flustered to meet Sansa's eyes. Sansa, for her part, looked equally embarrassed, though she still smiled sweetly as they wove through the other couples.

Rhaenys grinned. Over the last week, she had paid witness to more than one awkward and stammering exchange between her youngest brother and his lady cousin. Egg had teased him terribly for it, unleashing Jon's rarely seen temper. Perhaps Aegon's efforts tonight would help in earning Jon's forgiveness.

Rhaenys was on her third cup of wine and feeling rather content when the minstrels struck up the opening bars of the 'The Dragon Maid'. Her heart dropped. A bard soon joined in, with words both familiar and feared.

The song was composed when she was fifteen still in the first blooms of womanhood. At the time, she had been pleased by the attentions of a bard from the Reach, newly come to court. When she eventually spurned his advances, he in turn wrote 'The Dragon Maid', a cloying, overindulgent tribute to her. The song depicted her as the model of beauty, piety, and chastity. She was the Maiden made real. But chiefly it spoke of 'a longing that burned' for the Dragon Maid.

At five and ten, it was flattering. At twenty, it was humiliating. Each time it played, it generated more and more gossip. By now, all of Westeros had an opinion on the existence of her maidenhead. Any man she smiled at, or danced with, or bestowed a kind word on was instantly supposed her lover. Egg had tried to ban its playing, but that only served to fuel the ongoing speculation that she warmed his bed. They were _Targaryens_ after all.

There were few brazen enough to still play the song within the Red Keep's walls, let alone in her presence.

"I'm rather fond of this tune."

Rhaenys froze, recognizing the voice from behind her.

_Of course. This would be Viserys' doing._

Her uncle drew closer, leaning a hand on either side of her, caging her in against the table.

"A Dornishwoman still a maid at your age?" he continued, his warm breath ghosting against her ear. "You are truly singular, niece."

Rhaenys' spine stiffened. Gooseflesh crawled across the skin of her neck.

Her uncle always made a point to bring up her Martell blood. She, Aegon, and Jon were half-breeds, not _true dragons_.

"Thank you, uncle," she said flatly.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Viserys frown, clearly displeased with her reaction. He moved to settle himself against the table in front of her.

"Have you no kiss for your dear uncle on his nameday?" He smirked down at her, eyes flashing challengingly.

She swallowed back the urge to curse him.

"Of course, uncle."

She moved to brush a chaste peck against his cheek, but Viserys took hold of her forearm, steering so that her mouth missed his cheek entirely, and landed squarely on his lips. The kiss lasted longer than was appropriate, going beyond the bounds of familial affection, but as Viserys fingers dug into her arm, Rhaenys knew better than to try to pull away.

When the finally parted, Viserys grinned at her and patted her cheek, before hopping off the table to return to his seat.

Rhaenys felt the weight of several pairs of eyes focused on her. She glanced over to where Aegon stood across the hall. He was livid, hands clenched at his sides and murder flashing in his violet eyes.

It was best she left quietly, before this escalated any further.

Avoiding the curious stares of half the court, Rhaenys allowed Septa Ashara to usher her away from the high table and out of the Queen's Ballroom.

She knew that tomorrow there would be a new score of rumors filling the halls of the Red Keep, more vile than any of their predecessors.

Try as she might, she was not The Dragon Maid.

Life was not a song.

**Author's Note: **I'm back from my Nanowrimo hiatus! Thank you for your patience as far as updates go. This was a fun chapter to write. I like writing in Rhaneys POV, and Viserys being an asshat is always fun (did I go too far). Also, baby Jon awkwardly danced with baby Sansa, so my shipper heart is content. :) I'm not sure if I've muddied things too much as far as Aegon and Rhaenys go, but there relationship is kind of a weird one. Things will become clearer in the next few chapters.

Next Up: Aegon POV and Viserys' Nameday tourney (and there is going to be drama)


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